"You and Jimmy," Vernell stuttered. "You and him was… was…" Vernell's face was taking on a green hue and I remembered right quick why Vernell had knocked off drinking. It didn't agree with his liver.
"Me and Jimmy was family, Vernell, and that's all there was to it."
"You and Jimmy was dogging me in my own house!" he thundered. That brought the dance floor to a standstill and set Cletus into action.
"Well, if that ain't the pot calling the kettle black," I stormed, unfortunately into my live mike.
"But kin, Maggie, you was doggin' me with my own kin."
As if that somehow made the sin worse. I gave Vernell a pitying, down-my-nose look.
"Vernell, I would no more be unfaithful to you with a member of your family than fly to the moon. But all that's really neither here nor there, 'cause we're divorced! You left me and married a bimbo!"
This clearly threw Vernell for a loop.
"Naw!" he cried, falling back a step into Cletus's outstretched arms. "Naw!" A confused look crossed his face, then pain, and finally tears. "Cain't be."
What was wrong with him? Had Jimmy's death sent him into such a tailspin that he no longer remembered anything? Was this a form of post-traumatic stress or amnesia?
The band had picked up that their lead singer was out of action and was doing its best to rock the audience away from me and back out onto the dance floor. I crouched down at the edge of the stage and motioned for Cletus to move Vernell up closer.
"Vernell, I know Jimmy's death was a terrible shock-" I said, but he interrupted me.
"Jimmy and me, we always take care of our own, Maggie. I take care of my family."
"I know you do, Vernell." Yep, he took care of me all right. Ran out on me and his baby girl, but those support checks rolled in, right on time, every month. Of course, they quit coming the day Sheila moved in with Vernell and his lovely Dish Girl. There was caring and then there was care. Vernell maintained his family, but he didn't care squat about us when he left.
"Come on," Cletus grunted, and started to lead Vernell away.
"Keep your hands off me!" Vernell shouted.
When Vernell was younger, he was bad to drink. Young and wiry, he'd been mean as a snake when he got liquored up. Soon as he sobered up, he'd forget everything that'd happened. Most of the time, he'd deny he'd ever been drinking, just block out what he didn't want to remember. Looked to me like Vernell hadn't changed much, even though I thought he'd quit the hard stuff over ten years ago.
Cletus let his eyes go flat and hard. His grip tightened on Vernell's arms and I could tell by the pinched look on Vernell's face that it hurt. Vernell had to face facts, he wasn't a young buck anymore and Cletus would take him if he had to.
"Maggie," Vernell said, his attention once more on me. "I done drove my ducks to bad market but there's no undoing it now. I got to lie down with the dogs and take my lumps."
"Vernell, what on earth are you saying?" I didn't like the way he was talking, or his tone. Something about it frightened me.
"Be careful, Maggie. There's all kind of danger in this world. There ain't always gonna be somebody looking after you. You're a woman alone. Yep," Vernell said, the green tinge to his skin suddenly turning ash white. "You never know when life'll sneak up on you and eat your lunch, sack and all." Then he clasped a hand to his mouth. "Aw, gawd," he moaned. "I'm gonna be sick!"
That got Cletus moving. With one beefy hand on Vernell's collar and the other on Vernell's waistband, Cletus propelled Vernell away from me and over to the men's room.
I straightened up, looked out at the crowd who by now had returned to dancing, and shrugged my shoulders at the young studs. Poor Vernell, I thought, but I couldn't quite get my heart into the sentiment. There was something different about him, and it wasn't just the clothes and the liquor. Something had changed and Vernell the Entrepreneur had vanished, leaving behind a shadow of the man I'd once known.
Chapter Nine
Jack noticed the long scrape down the side of my car first, then the flat tire. We had walked out of the Golden Stallion together, the energy necessary for performing quickly draining away and leaving in its place a bone-weary fatigue.
"Shit!" he swore. "What is that?"
My right rear tire lay flat on the ground, a gash torn vertically across the rubber, just below the rim. I stood there, trying to get my brain to accept the image. Then I saw the scrape down the passenger side. Narrow and jagged, it cut through the paint, leaving an ugly metal scar.
I looked around at the cars nearby. They were untouched. Why me? Why my car? What was going on here? "I'm coming," the voice had said. Was this it? The beginning?
I didn't say anything. Maybe I was afraid to open my mouth, afraid of the sounds that would come out into the cold, fall dawn. Instead, I gently lowered my guitar case to the asphalt and walked to the hood of the Beetle. Jack was squatting down by the tire, his fingers rubbing against the fraying rubber, swearing under his breath. Slowly and methodically, I pulled the tire kit out of the trunk, then unbolted the spare and began carrying it.
"I'll get that," he said, moving quickly to take the dirty tire out of my hands.
"No, don't!" I tightened my grip and practically shoved him aside in my hurry. I didn't want any help. I needed to feel as if there was something I could do, one thing I could still control in my crazy universe. I could change a damn tire by myself!
I knelt down, pulled out the tire iron and placed it over the first lug nut. I gave it a mighty wrench. When it didn't move, I stood up and jumped on the iron arm, demanding that it give. Slowly the lug turned.
To his credit, Jack never moved, never said a word. He stood there in the frosty morning air and watched, now and then stamping his feet against the cold. My car, I thought over and over. My car, my car, my car. My house, violated. My gun, stolen. My grandma's rug, ruined. Jimmy, dead. My daughter. What about my daughter?
I rocked back and forth on my heels, not just loosening a lug nut, but rocking to soothe away the tears that bit the edges of my eyelids and cut a pathway down my cheeks. My baby. My baby. Mybaby.
Once, when Sheila was four, I went to pick her up from preschool. It was raining and I was a little early, so I parked and walked up to the door to get her instead of waiting in the carpool line with the other mothers. I opened my giant yellow-flowered umbrella and held it with one hand, taking her pudgy, warm little-girl hand in my other.
I knew, even before she reached my side, that something was wrong. Don't ask me how. She didn't say a word to let on. She even smiled when I stretched out my hand to her, but it was a small, tight smile. Her eyes were huge and her shoulders stiff. We walked about twenty feet down the sidewalk, just past the edge of the line of vans and station wagons waiting to claim their children.
"How was your day, honey?" I asked softly.
"Mom," she said, a small tremor leaking into her lispy-lilty voice, "Will doesn't want to marry me. He said we can't be engaged 'cause his cousin Barbara is going to marry him." With that, all pretense of composure left her, and she began to sob, deep wracking gulps that shook her tiny body.
I stopped still on the sidewalk, in the rain, and knelt down by her side. "Oh, honey," I said, pulling her to me. "I'm so sorry."
We knelt there in the rain, half-hidden by my sunny yellow umbrella, crying. Sheila sobbing because her heart was broken for the very first time, and me because I couldn't save her from the pain of finding out for the first time that life can be terribly cruel and unfair.